Sitting at the kitchen tablefingering grocery store flowersthree days old,weeping over a mason jar glasswhile your seat’s gone coldagain.Head hanging low,I am an angry bitter being.Tongue rebelling,stomach curdling from the aftertaste-a spoonful of overdone heart.There’s more than one cookstirring this dinner pot.She’s licking pink lipswhile dipping painted fingertipsinto the brew.My fraying dirty apronhanging crooked onContinue reading “Someone’s In The Kitchen And It Ain’t Me”
Carmilla Dawn 